Soldier On The Road
by The Wayfaring Strangers
Summary: Short stories, one-shots, and character studies for the Man Out of Time and his team. Expect whump, angst, and all around feels. Non-slash, non-chronological. Chapter seven: They never saw Loki coming - not Steve, not Tony, not even Thor. But now he's back, and not above destroying his enemies' minds (part two)...
1. Winter's Crown

_**NOTE: The first two chapters of this fic are mostly character studies, so if you want some action, skip to chapter three. They're unrelated one-shots; you won't miss anything. :) Now, on with the show.**_

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Cold. It is utter and absolute. It haunts his dreams, ghosting across his mind in the almost quiet moments. Ice stitches together his nightmares. The Captain closes his eyes-

_-and inky water rushes in, swirling darkly, drowning the light of a sun that set seventy years ago, leaving the winter hills in deep darkness. And it is so cold. Frozen, he is still slipping down, down into the fathomless abyss. There is light, yes, but only for a moment - the warm, sorrowfully golden sun, shining bravely against the earth's curve... draining away in the few seconds before the Valkyrie drowns completely. And he is trapped beneath the apathetic metal, watching helplessly, and trying to capture some of that light against the Tesseract's frigid glow. And the dark oblivion that must come after. Light, golden light, burning, shining, setting the ice on fire, and almost, in a moment, warming his face. But then it is gone, and he is falling, falling-_

Seventy years ago.

His eyes fly open. And closes them again, because the strange new world is even worse, sometimes, than the ice. He may be part of a team now, part of the Avengers, but sometimes, in this moment, he cannot be anything other than alone - a man out of time.

_-down into the endlessness. The blue light surrounds him, negates the sun, as icy water fills the hull. He should be dead, but as it closes gently over him, blue filters through his eyelids. Then darkness bleeds around the edges, and he cannot breathe, and - and-_

Peggy.

He still remembers every second of their last conversation and the scratching static between words. He remembers promising not to step on her toes, wonders if she would have cared. He wonders if she was crying then. Her voice sounded like it, but then dead winter rushed up to meet him, and he couldn't hear. Not anymore. The tears that trace softly down his face, as if in answer, are as cold as the ice. Ice for an endless winter.

And it is winter now, and Steve thinks he can hear every snowflake falling and dancing around Stark Tower. Of course he cannot, for even his enhanced hearing has its limits, but the sound is still there, ghosting across the silence. And he cannot sleep. For sleep is dreams, and dreams are ice, and ice is death.

So he sits, curled into a ball, on a couch in Stark Tower, trying to keep the cold at bay. He tries to sleep, most nights, he really does, but there is always a shadow that stains his dreams. Sometimes it wins. Like tonight. And tonight, not even the destroyed punching bags will shatter it. It is ice, and fire and blood and pain and death. Steve thinks it will never go away. Ice and fear, guilt and falling ashes, singing a harsh song in his mind. It is worse now, after the Chitauri almost destroyed New York, worse than when he first woke up. That fight dredged up memories that Steve would much rather left resting quietly in their graves, locked forever in the back of his mind. But the images well up now, like blood from a deep wound. He remembers, now, the exact way that the Red Skull died, lost and broken in the darkness between stars. He remembers, perfectly, the look on Bucky's face when he fell, when winter shadows claimed his friend.

_It is always winter, always ice, always the Tessaract's glow, cold and fathomless beneath deep water-_

_And he is falling..._

_All the shadows dissolve, and the white endlessness of snow swirls around him. He is standing beneath tall trees, all bare and empty. Hollow._

_Falling..._

_His shield lies in the white before him, hues oddly vivid in a world without color. Safe._

_Falling..._

_He reaches for it, but even as his fingers graze the icy metal, the ice takes him._

_Dead winter reigns, hollow and absolute. _

_And he is _

_Alone-_

"Steve?"

-And Tony is standing next to him, looking down with a mixture of confusion and concern written all over his face.

"You alright?"

Steve realizes that his own face is soaked in tears. He's shivering.

"Yeah..." _I think..._

Tony flopped down beside him, and the couch shudders just a bit. A small part of Steve's mind wonders why Tony is up in the middle of the night, but he doesn't ask. They all have their demons. Steve's just happens to be colder than most. And stranger, he thinks. But he wouldn't know. Stark's hand is on his shoulder, and Steve is vaguely surprised that he should care.

But he doesn't mind, really. A quietness falls between them, and it is not unpleasant. Tony doesn't ask, and Steve says nothing, because no words are needed. Both of them know the meaning of nightmare, and the silence that stretches afterward, filled with frantic thoughts, but so alone. It is, perhaps, the unspoken agreement of the haunted. But Tony's hand is warm on his shoulder, and that is enough.

_Winter's crown is breaking. The ice melts. _


	2. Song Without Words

The rain falls.

Gray rain, shards of a gray sky, painting the world in shades of pewter. The drops sift finely from above, as the sky itself is breaking. But the roof of the world never shatters, and the drops splatter against bright glass, leaving faintly shining trails in their wake. Each one lands and drains away, spent and empty. He gazes out the window, trying to see past the wet glass, fogged with his breath - trying to understand a world beyond the descending gray. Drops fall like tears in the silence. But Captains do not cry, and he will not be the exception. So many familiar faces staring back at him in sorrow is never a reason to become the anomaly, even if Steve Roger's eyes threaten to bleed like rain.

They're gone; never ever coming back.

So he turns away from the window, which has become too much like a mirror. For he cannot see beyond the gray rain curtain, and the faces _hurt. _He can draw them, sketching the lines and contours of dead men's faces from a memory still vivid, but the smooth pages of a sketchbook are so different from the window in the rain, soaked and dripping with the tears he never shed.

Except for Bucky. Steve cried for Bucky. It was only a few tears, but he still remembers the salty taste and the warmth on his face. But Bucky was worth more than that. He was Steve's sole family after his mother died; his friend, his brother - Bucky was his _only_. A hand heavy on his back, a rough laugh and a ready smile, a worn and battered coat, oddly warm around his thin shoulders. And it's only really been a handful of months since Bucky...

...Bucky -

He _won't_ think of that. A face falling away and down, into endlessness. Like the rain drops. Falling beyond fingers pressed against the glass, into the cold, cold night. And they will land hollow; spent, broken, and empty. Like James Buchanan Barnes. And Steve Rogers. He has fallen into deep, deep winter. And, in all likelihood, Steve Rogers died in the _Valkyrie_. Captain America may pick himself up again and fight another hour, beat back the darkness for one more day - but Steve Rogers can't. He's dead or dying.

And he still doesn't know how to dance.

Her face looks back now from his memory, and it is _too much_. He breaks down and cries. Tears spill out of him, melting every last crystal of numbness. Wet on his face, wet on the window, wet on the weary road, and still his too-wide shoulders shake. He can remember them all, his friends, his team, his world; a wave of homesickness closes over him. It is warm streetlamps and long trench coats; cigar smoke and warm voices. That is his world, but he is lost in another. A world of strange clothing and flashy lights, and a never ending hum of _noise, _and he cannot forget, even though he is wrapped in the falling rain. This world is quieted, but never silenced.

And then he hears it. Almost.

It is the sound of his mother's voice, singing softly and gently in a small, quiet room. She sang in the rain, he remembers. Always with the rain, answering the thrum of drops on a leaky roof. And he is again a tiny child in a close, bright room, sitting across from her at a rickety table. His child's voice says something, and his mother's warm fingers brush across his hair. She smiles and begins to sing again. It is a good song, filling the stillness like water in a cup. He blinks, and it's gone. He is Captain America and he is sitting in an apartment in New York City in 2012. But his mother's song lingers for a moment. The echoes wash over him, and slowly, the tears dry and stop dripping into his hands. Her singing always brought peace, even when he was coughing so hard he couldn't think straight, or his head felt like it would explode. Peace stealing in on whispering wings half-imagined in the rain's thrum.

The words elude him, but the melody trickles into his mind. The mind of Steve Rogers. And so he sits, softly humming a song without words. And it doesn't hurt anymore, not so much; he is a little less lost now, and maybe Steve Rogers isn't dead after all - Captains never cry, but men do. And the rain falls softly; a unchanging song for the man out of time.

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_A/N: Big thanks to Saoirse7 for encouraging me to make this multi-chap! Also, if you have a prompt idea, please tell me. :)_

_~RandomCelt_


	3. Shooting Star

Steve Rogers runs.

He pours all determination into every stride; every breath loud in a silence that he didn't know existed.

In. Out.

In the back of his mind, a thought stirs, telling him that there was another time, another time when he could not run fast enough. It had something to do with a scientist and a spy, and being stronger than he could ever hope. But that doesn't matter right now. His footfalls are loud in his ears, crunching over metal and glass and broken things. A turned over car looms in front of him. He vaults over the crunched metal and shattered glass without a second thought. The cracked windshield mirrors the seamless sky and he glances at it for a beat, wondering how anything has a right to be so clear and _blue _when their are _robots_ buzzing around the city and killing without thought, feeling or remorse.

In. Out.

Steve's past the wreck of bright, twisted metal now, and he can actually see Stark again. The last time he saw the man, he was falling from the sky like a red-golden shooting star, com fizzling out. No-one else could get to him, so now Steve is smashing and bashing his way through a cloud of shiny, buzzy bots.

In. Out.

More of them are circling the fallen Iron Man, like flies around a dying thing. Steve really hopes Tony isn't dying. The bots turn and face him now, seeming almost angry in their emotionless flight. Steve's shield sails through the air, swift, precise and accurate. His arm swings out to catch it in a movement so practiced that he hardly thinks about it. He is almost distracted when one of them ends up behind him-

Smash.

That was close.

_Careful, Rogers._

He finally reaches Stark, and feels something drop inside. This isn't good. At all. The bots are swarming his suit - but they aren't trying to kill him, they're _doing_ something to his suit. The silvery crawlers are stained a faint red, reflecting Iron Man's colors. Tony's waving his arms, thrashing, trying to break free. He seems panicked - and Tony never panics...

The Iron Man suit spasms frantically, then lies still. Not good - the bots leave Tony and fly at Steve, who berates himself over a moment's indecision, even as his arm swings back, throwing automatically, and his shield carves the bright sky in two. The swarm of bots goes down, and Tony stands. A smile tugs at Steve's lips.

Then it crumbles and the relief drains out of him. Something's wrong_. _Something's_ wrong. _No-one moves like that. He stands in a single, fluid movement, with a grace more akin to this world's swooping, graceful machines, than to a man, metal suit or no. Steve steps backward, and Tony's arm comes up, repulsor whirring to life.

"Steve! Steve, get out of here-"

The suit cuts him off. Steve brings his shield up just in time. Fire bounces away, and he can hear Tony yelling.

"It's got my suit!" His voice is drowned by the metal encasing his head. Steve yells into his comm, telling everyone what happened in so many words, punctuated by his heavy, ragged breathing as he flees that metal monster that used to be his friend. His teammates respond in a ripple of alarmed voices, but they are all drowned by the blood pounding in his ears. _Tony_ is trapped in his own _suit_, and the bots are using him as a human weapon, taking out people and buildings and cars in shining showers of destruction.

Now he's chasing Steve. The Captain dodges and zigzags, ducks and hides, trying to shake his enemy. Steve cannot fathom how terrifying it must be to be Tony right now. The inventor is trapped inside of his own invention, and the suits is doing things that even Tony would pause to evaluate. His blood runs cold as the suit goes into a swan dive, pulling out at the last second and creating a smoking crater in a nearby office building, instead of the already-broken road.

The mastermind behind this attack is going to use Tony do as much damage as possible.

Then he will kill Stark using the man's own alter ego.

A chill runs down Steve's neck. Of course, it might just be the passing breeze from a bot he is dodging, but the Captain doesn't pause to consider that. His shield comes up and it dies in a shower of sparks. Then his blood boils. The Avengers are his team, and Captain America isn't about to let a soldier go down on his watch. (Steve Rogers isn't about to let Tony Stark be killed by the machine that he made, and in some ways, that made him.)

He ducks behind a fallen car, breathing hard and trying not to panic. Steve remembers the time, months ago, when he first told the billionaire to 'put on the suit'. Now, now that they are a team, he never imagined he'd actually have to fight Tony's creation. But then again, he never imagined that he'd wake up seventy years later in a world so changed.

He also never imagined that Tony's suit would see him that fast and take the opportunity to charge him.

Fate has a way of proving him wrong.

The world contracts until Steve can only see the red-gold monster bearing down on him, bright and flashy and so horribly familiar. He never realized that Tony could fly that fast, but at the last moment, something happens. Later, Steve is never sure if some internal instinct grabs him and pulls him out of his thick, sticky stunned state, or if Stark manages to shift his weight and avert the inevitable.

Either way, Captain America is sprawled across the hood of a Honda painted an annoyingly cheerful shade of green, and Iron Man is lying at the epicenter of a thousand large and small cracks in the black asphalt. Steve Rogers in stunned, and he does nothing for a few beats, letting the world even out around him.

Tony Stark isn't moving.

Steve peels himself off the car's hood and runs to his teammate.

"Tony!"

Nothing. The suit seems dead, but maybe that's good. If Iron Man is down for the count, Steve can prize his friend from its metal embrace. But Tony isn't answering. Steve hears the almost-panic in his own voice.

"Tony?"

He sinks down beside his teammate rips off his faceplate, after a brief struggle with the flashy metal that is Iron Man's face. If there is splintered glass ripping into his knees and if everything hurts, he doesn't notice. Not now. Steve feels something welling up inside of him when he sees how pale Stark's face is. But he's breathing. Tony's breathing. It's okay.

But he's so, so _still_.

Stark is always moving, always talking, always doing, and it's unnerving to see him so still. There's blood trickling down his face and bruises pooling under his pale skin. Steve skims his dusty fingers over Tony's brow, wiping away the blood. HE speaks into the comm, telling his teammates what happened, but the only answer is apathetic static. He realizes that the robots must be jamming the signal. Robots. He tilts his head up, around, scanning the area, but he sees none. Maybe his team took them out already, or maybe they are busy elsewhere.

The street is empty of both friend and foe. He's on his own with an inert Tony and the inert, but lethal suit holding him captive. The Cap has no idea where the manual releases are, and he also knows he about zero chance of finding them unaided. Tony Stark is paranoid, apparently. _Tony..._

Steve tries to wake Tony, but nothing works. The knot in his gut twists, and it seems that the pool of guilt is pulling him down. If he had been a little faster, a little stronger, a little better, Tony wouldn't be lying here, bruised and unconscious, a huge chunk of his identity turned against him. Steve feels the blood trickling down his own face, but he makes no move to wipe away the red dripping down his chin and bleeding into his suit. His left arm _hurts_, and the car's hood ripped into his back. Somewhere on the way, his cowl was ripped off of his head, but he doesn't really notice, other than to push the sweat-soaked hair out of his eyes, wondering vaguely how it got there.

Something catches his attention. It might be the light shining back from moving metal out of the corner of his eye, it might be faint hum, or maybe some soldier's sixth sense, but he acts on it, and hurls himself backward, even as Iron Man rises from the shattered ground, joints screeching and sparking. Steve feels his eyes widen. He doesn't understand what just happened, but he does know that Tony's invention is out for his blood. Steve dives behind the lime-green Honda and brings his shield up, rolling out of the way as everything above him dissolves into a blur of fire and noise. He watches the Iron Man suit stagger drunkenly toward him, blasting things as it goes. Tony is trapped inside of the metal monster, and Steve feels his blood run cold because he can see Stark's face, ashen, slack, and horribly empty. Iron Man may kill Captain America today.

It may also kill Tony Stark.

The machine gathers momentum and lifts off. The repulsors spit fire and the arms list wildly, but Iron Man is airborne, and headed straight for Steve, and the semi-destroyed office building behind him. If Steve doesn't move, both of them will end up in the depths of an unstable building, _and_ they will have to deal with the suit. The contracts until only tow things exist: the red-gold knight bent on destruction, and the supersoldier in its way.

Steve does the only thing he can. He dives way, rolling and sliding through the rubble of a sane world.

Iron Man explodes into the office building, sending dust and chunks of masonry flying. There's a deafening crash followed by beat of stillness and Steve really hopes that was enough to do in Tony's suit. He yells into his comm again, but the answer is more static. Glancing up and down the street, he realizes they are still alone. Steve bites back a bitter smile. _This_ is a job for... Captain America. Bitter as ice. The structure creaks and groans above his head, and he wonders what he was thinking, letting Tony take this fall alone...

_You didn't have a choice. _

_There's always a choice._

_The suit would have crushed you and then no-one could save him. _

_There has to be another way. You just didn't think fast enough._

Pebbles of concrete settle around him, coating his suit in dust and thickening the air. He starts to cough. _Can't breathe... _And for a split second, he doesn't know if he's a supersoldier in the 21st century or a sickly boy in the 20th.

_Find Tony. _

He spots a gleam of red and scrambles forward, ducking and twisting around metal snakes and concrete monsters. Stark's legs are pinned beneath a metal beam and his left arm is lying at an odd angle. As he assesses the situation, Steve absently wonders if the suit did that or if it happened when Tony crashed. The building is decidedly unsound and groaning unhappily. Stark is unconscious, in his suit, and Steve doesn't know how to work the manual releases. They have a handful of minutes, at best. At least the suit is completely dead this time. Tony is going to have a cow when he learns that Steve left his (possessed, destroyed) Iron Man suit in a collapsing building.

But Steve doesn't care about the suit. He cares about Tony.

"Stark! Stark, wake up," Steve taps the side of Tony's face, eliciting no response. He calls the billionaire's name again. Nothing. Steve shakes him. _Nothing. _Rogers breathes deeply, then whacks Tony across the face, ignoring the bruises splashed across Tony's cheeks. Success. He groans and swears under his breath, trying to move his arms and legs. Then dark eyes snap open, and he nails Steve with a piercing glare.

"What the heck just happened?"

"Your suit ate you," Steve deadpans.

"Shut up, Spangles," Tony realizes that his legs are trapped. A mini explosion of profanities showers the area.

Steve grunts and grabs the beam across Tony's legs, asking, "Can you move?"

He is surprised by the hoarseness of his voice. Tony shifts his weight around and then nods tersely.

"If you move that beam, I can get clear."

Steve shifts his hands along the cold metal, ignoring his screaming left arm and the way the muscles in his back protest. He puts all his weight against the beam and lifts. It comes free after a few sweating, struggling moments and slowly inches upward. Tony begins to wriggle away, looking like a cross between a lobster and dragon. Steve would laugh any other time. Stark is finally clear after what feels like an eternity of pain, and he lets the beam crash down in a shower of rubble and an exhausted, hoarse cry. He turns to see if Stark is alright.

Then he realizes that the sound came from his own lips. He turns and scrambles after Stark is half limping, half crawling. Rogers twists his arm around Tony's back, wondering what the suit did to his friend. The building shifts around them, and a chunk of masonry falls from the groaning ceiling. Time to leave. Tony dodges another chunk, and the floor pitches.

_Now._

Steve sees the blue, blue sky through the hole Tony's suit created, and redoubles their pace. Stark grunts in protest, mumbling something unintelligible. Cap doesn't remember going this far in, and he certainly doesn't remember going down, but now they're scrambling up, back to the real world. Tony stumbles against him and more of the building crumbles around them. A twisted coil of who knows what falls right behind them. The hole into the sky is so close now. A tremendous groaning, rumbling roar of metal and stone, or whatever they make buildings out of these days, breaks out around and above and they're out of time. Steve wraps his right arm tighter around Tony and brings his shield up over their heads with his injured left.

Then he flings himself out, up, and beyond. The world explodes around and behind. He hears a yell from Tony, but all he can see is the seamless blue sky and the oh-so-familiar colors of his shield. Dust fills the air, swirling and dancing, erasing all else.

Captain America's eyes slip closed.

Then there's a bone-jarring thud, and they're laying on the shattered pavement, and everything_ hurts_. Steve can't imagine moving in a million years, but Captain America peels himself off the ground and stands, ignoring his injuries. He steps toward Tony, who's sitting up moaning, and falls flat on his face. His right ankle is on _fire_.

And Tony _laughs. _

Steve feels a smile tugging on his bruised face, and he gives in to it. His lip splits, but it's alright, because they're both alive and Tony's suit didn't actually eat him. But now Thor's here, and looks very tall, demanding to now what happened and hoisting Steve to his feet. The dying sun spins a golden halo behind the Asgardian's head, and the whole team is standing in a knot around them. Someone is yelling about medics and quinjets, but Steve doesn't here much of it.

He should be giving orders, looking after his team, being useful, at least paying attention, but he lets himself go because Tony's alright and Thor will catch him before he slips again and cracks his head open.

It's alright now; they won. And no one is dead, either.

The sky is very, _very_ blue.

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_A/N: Another chapter. :) Please tell me what you think - every reviewer gets a handmade thank-you note from Steve. (Or at least, a PM in response from me...)_

_~RandomCelt_


	4. Dripping Red

He was the perfect soldier, like a white

pawn on an inky board. Innocent fray:

'Unstained', they named the better man

Who swore to find the other side of Day.

He followed every order graven in

Cold stone. He never broke the dusty chains

Of honor, twisting close around his heart;

The iron singing thunder in his veins.

-o-

He dreamed about Tomorrow, the other

side of day. Tear-streaked morning never came,

Rain-washed. The only dawn was drowned in blood

And ringed in coiled dragons: rising flame.

The tide of blood that stained horizons, weep-

ing, splattered gently on his brittle face,

He buried, dead, in rushing water deep.

His hands were clean, without a traitor stain.

-o-

His men lie around him, dead at whispered last,

The light of life drains out behind their eyes;

(The clanging horrors of his dreams, cracked glass,

Were false. Despair in icy silence reigns.)

The only color left to him is red,

To mock brave, innocent and silent white:

An afterglow of symmetry he once

Believed could end the screaming, endless night.

-o-

His shield shatters. Hopeless to the bone,

The footsteps of Death echo in his ears,

In the final stand of a man alone.

Light sings. He wakes from all his coiling dreams.

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_A/N: A nightmare, AU poem. How very RandomCelt. *sarcasm* But really, please tell me what you think. _

_~RandomCelt_


	5. Virus

His head pounds. His body aches. Every time he swallows, it feels like someone is forcing barbed wire down his throat. But he isn't sick.

He's Captain America.

His stomach may be doing back-flips, but he's a super-soldier. He doesn't get the flue.

Thunder flashes dimly and lightning flickers through the quinjet's windows, setting everything inside on monochrome fire. The jet bucks and swerves, and he can hear Barton swearing in the cockpit. Steve feels sorry for his co-pilot, a new agent who looked ready to take on the world when they picked Steve up from the extraction point. She's probably white-knuckling now.

He really should do something about the way Clint tends to treat the annoyingly cheerful new agents. If he didn't feel like barfing right now, he'd definitely _do_ something. As the jet dips again, steel and storm blur together and he reels, clutching his seat and wondering what in the world is wrong with him. He rests his aching head against the cool, clean window and watches the rain-streaked world wheel past, gray and nondescript. It's a dark day, and the hull of the jet is filled with blue half-light, seeping weariness and cold. Steve is exhausted, and everything aches in a way that has nothing to do with the way he tumbled down a flight of a stairs or crashed through a picture window, bruising his ribs and scratching his face and hands.

Kriffin' terrorists.

Steve remembers Tony telling him that he missed a few things 'doing time as a ...Capsicle', and most of the time, he agrees. But some things never change, like the bone-deep weariness, or the way his body aches.

He just wants to get back to his apartment and crash, but of course, S.H.I.E.L.D. has to debrief him. The quinjet touches down with a bone jarring thud and he hears the new agent huff in frustration at Hawkeye's antics.

* * *

An hour or two later, he leaves S.H.I.E.L.D headquarters, but not before Clint stops him in the hall with a hand on his arm.

The archer gives him a piercing look and asks, "You okay? You look like crap."

Steve assumes he means more than the already healing cuts littering his face so he nods, because really, he's fine. He has to be. His team doesn't need to know about the bruised ribs; they will heal by morning, and he is firmly ignoring the other symptoms. Clint isn't convinced - he gives the Captain pat on the arm and a small, wry smile that says he isn't buying it. But he turns and strides away. Steve is grateful that he doesn't pry. The doors swing closed behind him with a quiet slap and he's wading through the rainy streets of New York. The city is drowning in a thunder storm; lightning paints every shining building in an ephemeral flash and it nails him again – this isn't the city he grew up in, tailing his muddy best friend around the the sloppy streets. He coughs – harsh and ragged – and 2013 swallows him again. It's as though he's standing in deep water, and all the world is rushing past him in a bright, loud blur. Captain America never stumbles; Steve Rogers has fallen at his feet, broken.

The fact that he has scraped himself up and soldiered on seems insignificant sometimes.

He reaches his apartment building and takes the stairs, leaving barely visible wet footprints on the hard steps. Letting himself into his rooms, Steve suddenly feels dizzy, and the room hasn't spun like that in years. That was then, when he was sick and small and prone to tripping and falling headlong.

Bucky was always there to pull him back up, a rough smile and an oddly gentle hand on his shoulder.

_Bucky..._

But he's standing alone in an apartment that looks right but smells old, as if everything he has known is buried in a layer of dust, sleeping quietly under the years. He has the Avengers, he has another team, but sometimes it's not the same. They are all lost and broken, wild and lonely. They are his team. And he's not gonna let anything take them away.

It feels as though Thor's hammering on his head, though, and he sinks down on the couch, a chill blooming between his shoulder blades. Shivers shake his broad frame, and this shouldn't be happening-

He can't getting sick; it doesn't work that way – unless someone managed to infect him with a super-virus, and that's unlikely...

He crumples over and curls up, slipping in and out of consciousness. Colors spin and blur around him, light and dark, vivid and drab, twisting and swirling into something wholly unreal...

* * *

_There is cold. _

_And there is blood. _

_And someone is screaming – or maybe singing; he can't tell which. All sounds are blurred, an abstract painting for a blind man. And maybe he is blind; he sees nothing. The iron-copper taste of blood fills his mouth and a clanging shock travels down his spine. Red-_

"_Steve! Steve, wake up. It's just a dream."_

_-red, red, red. And he can't see any of it. There are voices falling down to him, voices from nowhere telling him to wake, but he's not sleeping. Is he? A grating, groaning roar of metal fills his ears and spills into his imagination, waking the monsters. _

"_Darn it, Rogers! Open your eyes."_

_He is propped up against a wall, straining with all his might as its full weight bears down on him. He is the only thing between the people he knows are in harm's way and a wall that could crush them. He can't see, but he knows there are people: someone is crying and a voice whispers desperately in his ears,"Cap. You need to come back."_

_But he can't leave; the wall is crushing him, but he won't move – can't move. The world's weight is crushing him, but he's a good soldier – he's Captain America – and he will stand even if all the world falls around him._

_More ghost voices whisper in his ears, pleading with him, but the cold, cold wind washes them away. He can't remember who the voices are; they have no faces in his mind. Neither does he. Who is he? A white canvas that he can't see stretches in every direction, free from color, shape and identity. It looks like snow, swirling, falling, hiding, singing. Nothing makes sense; fingers clutch at his hands and then slide away. Once, he catches a glimpse of a man's face – wild, golden hair and _blue _eyes staring into his, trying to say something. The lips move, but Steve hears nothing._

"_Steven, you must return to us. Leave the realm of dreams."_

_Perhaps the canvas is his mind. He thinks so, but he can't be sure- after all, the whole white surface is tinged with red now, running, pooling, spilling-_

"_STEVE!"_

_He is Steven Rogers; so much more than a single, consuming shade of red. And so much less._

* * *

His eyes snap open, and he instantly regrets it; bright light burns his retinas. He doesn't understand and he doesn't want to know. Everything hurts and didn't a wall just fall on him? It really feels that way. He doesn't want to move, but there's a warm hand on his back, and he slowly turns over.

Clint is hunched over his bed, sitting in a hard, plastic chair and looking as tired as Steve feels.

"What happened?" he asks after several moments, but it comes out blurry and slurred, like a photograph from his time, not in the clear, strong tone that he intended. _What happened?_

"You got whammied by a super-virus, Cap," He pauses, and a bit of the deadpan leaves his voice. "And don't you dare pull any that _I'm fine_ crap on me."

"Oh," Steve wonders how that happened, feeling oddly stupid.

"Tony says you'll be fine in a day or two," Clint sounds like he's talking about bruised ribs or a minor concussion, not a super-infection. It occurs to Steve that this might be his method of coping...

"Steve. Stay with me for a minute."

He forces his eyes back open, wondering when they slipped shut. Clint is looking at him intently with an almost-concerned look on his face.

"You don't have to go it alone, Cap. We're your team. We all care, even Stark. So no more Lone Ranger crap, alright?"

"Okay," Steve murmurs, wondering what he did to deserve a team like this. He's not alone, and it feels good. Really good.

"Thanks, Clint," he mumbles, and the world fades out.

* * *

_A/N: Another chapter. I'm thinking this fic will go to ten chapters... Upcoming chapters may include a confrontation between Steve and Loki, competent!Thor, and teamfic. Any prompt ideas? Oh. And Chapter four is fixed! :) Please tell me what you think.  
_

_~RandomCelt_


	6. Dark Water (part the first)

"You know you can't save them all," he gestures grandly, " Why try?" The voice is idly curious, like a scientist studying a creature trapped under glass. "You are only ..._mortal_."

The words echo and crash, falling around him. Loki stands tall and unmoved, amid the ruins of his own making. Buildings and cars burn, but the Liesmith seems to tower above it all, oddly clean and elegant. His long fingers sweep out, indicating the body of a civilian, lying like a puppet whose master has cut the strings.

Steve shivers, even though it's too hot; an icy spark chases the sweat trickling down his back and arms, and it's so _wrong_.

Loki's voice drops and his bottomless eyes widen, hypnotically; anyone else would have seemed innocent. "They will only break your heart."

Steve feels his fists clench, one around empty air, the other around the worn leather strap of his beloved shield. "Every life is worth saving."

His voice is dry and and cracked; he does not sound like Captain America anymore. Steve has the voice of a desperate and lost man, trying to save a world too big for him.

And Loki laughs. Chilling and bitter, it falls between them, shattering silence and the ground beneath: Loki has thrown down the gauntlet. The Captain gathers himself, wishing there was someone else to back him up, and hurls his shield at the Liesmith. It carves, whistling, through the air, bright and futile. He knows, as Loki bats his weapon away like a toy, that he is outgunned, out-manned, and so alone.

The shield spins drunkenly past his head, clanging against a crumpled car in a flurry of light and color. He scrambles backward, retrieves it, and still the world burns around him. Loki laughs again, energy pouring like water from the staff glinting in his hand. Steve brings the shield up, blocking his enemy's flickering attacks, again and again and again. The unearthly light dredges up memories of faceless HYDRA soldiers clutching similar weapons and spreading destruction faster than he could run. Captain America shoves it down.

S.H.I.E.L.D. found out that Loki was here too late, sending out an urgent call to the Avengers. Steve is the only one here, yet. He was closest. And the Avengers aren't assembled yet, and he was supposed to wait, but he didn't because he's Captain America, and people were dying. Now he might be dying. Loki is merciless; the energy flowing from his staff – green, now, not blue – courses across the broken road between them, nailing his shield again and again. It's enough, but it won't be forever. Energy hums through his arms, setting his teeth on edge, prickling on his scalp. It flows in waves, crashing over him; so many blows, numbing his arms.

Steve realizes that if he doesn't act now, he never will. Loki's emerald attacks seem to be draining his strength and it will only get worse – the Trickster seems to stand a bit taller for every inch he crumbles. Even as he rises to his feet, unaware that he had fallen to his knees, it takes a great effort. Steve is breathing heavily, and he chokes on smoke and ash, the weight of destruction pulling him down. He is the only thing between Loki and an entire city and he's not going to let innocent people die at the whim of a madman.

_They will only break your heart._

Coughing, he faces Loki, wondering if the waves of flickering _power_ will ever wink out. Just when his arms start to shake and he knows the shield will fall, clanging, from nerveless fingers, the light goes out, and Loki is almost leaning on his staff, dark hair mussed and deep eyes cold.

He's strong enough to tire Loki out. The Trickster speaks again. "You think yourself strong to fight me," his voice takes on an icy edge, like winter, "A walking shield, foolish enough to stand in the way of true strength."

And it's like someone dropped a great weight on Steve, and he's sinking down beneath something smooth and dark and infinitely heavy. Loki knows. Loki knows he a lab experiment given a second chance. The Trickster knows that Steve is the living personification of the shield he carries, sometimes proudly, sometimes wearily. Nothing more than a shield-

_You're just a laboratory experiment, Rodgers. Everything special about you came out of a bottle-_

-to stand in harm's way and take all the hits. He shivers again and glares at Loki, trying to ignore the little voice whispering that it would have been better if he had never woken up in this century. Loki knows and he's holding it over Steve's head like a weapon. Gathering what strength he had left, he throws his shield again, this time at an angle, so that it ricochet off a chunk of rubble in a shower of sparks, whizzing at Loki from the right. Steve's in the air the moment the worn leather strap leaves his grimy fingers, launching everything he's got at Loki. It's a desperate attack: faulty and reckless, but it's all he's got.

And it's not enough. Moving faster than Steve's stinging eyes can follow, the Liesmith swats Steve's shield away with with a swirling, deadly grace and engages him. The Trickster's blows are swift and brutal. They tangle in a sweaty, deadly fight, and Steve's pulse is crashing in his ears. He's disoriented, and Loki presses his every advantage, hurling Steve out and away in an explosion of raw, unearthly strength.

The world rolls wildly around him, and he wonders, _Why? Why aren't I strong enough? _

Steve lands, heavy, on broken concrete, scraping his hands and knees. He's not good enough to battle a god; Schmidt once told him he that he had left his humanity behind, but that's not true. He's only human; a broken _human_ shield, crumpled in the dust of glory.

Loki's swirling deflection has left his back to Steve, and the supersoldier wonders at the god's confidence, his arrogance, his pride – turning his back on the enemy. But Steve knows it is because he can do nothing for a moment and Loki _knows_. Knows his weakness.

Captain America lies there in the rubble of a city he was supposed to protect and watches Loki's cloak sway and shift with residual motion, his limbs leaden and his mind weighed down. It seems the greenest thing Steve has ever seen; green for life, but he is going to die.

Loki speaks again, voice dripping venom, "I know why you keep up the mask, Captain. I've seen the way you guard your team, your ...family," Loki sounds as though he is testing out the word on his tongue, and Steve must have imagined the slash of _envy_ in his voice. Then the horror of what Loki is saying takes his though and smashes it.

"You would walk into Death for them, you would do anything for them because they are _all you have_," Steve can see the venom in his mind, green poison dripping from Loki's thin lips, scarring his narrow face. He keeps the image in his mind, thrusting it against Loki's words.

"You may be ageless, but they are not. They are falling stars, Captain, blazing across the sky in a flurry of splendour, gone in a heartbeat, or else walking away from the weight of responsibility. You know this."

His voice drops, and Steve is sinking in deep water, green poison dripping slowly onto his face: the cold and heavy stone settling deep within him is beyond words.

"They are _going to die_. You will be alone, Captain. Alone with a comfortable lie or a bitter Truth. It is your choice."

Steve coughs, and blood is trickling down his filthy face, leaking into his eyes, blurring the world. "You're the liar."

Loki turns, and the world turns with him: something huge explodes behind the Trickster's tall form, painting everything red. He faces the fallen soldier, whispering softly and almost sadly.

"Kneel."

_Kneel. _ Loki commanded the same thing at Stuttgart, and the tone of his dark voice is the same - deep and angry and lordly.

He won't listen. Steve Rodgers may be about to give up, gasping and bloodied, but Captain America never backs down. So he stands, pulls himself together, man and Captain both. He has been allowed to stand so high, and he will not fall at the word of a madman. He may be only a human shield, but he is a shield doing the right thing, even when he knows it will end in darkness.

Captain America died once; he can do it again.

He hopes it doesn't come to that, but what hope it there, really? He is alone, fighting against a god, a mad, wise, strong god. A pitiless god.

Loki strides toward him, bearing his staff in one hand and Steve's shield in the other. His face is a mask and he looks like a judge, impartial and cold-eyed as winter. Steve readies himself, lunges at Loki, is repulsed, flies backward again. He lands in the rubble, gazing up at a mad god. Everything hurts and he thinks one of his legs is broken. Loki presses the cold metal of the shield to Steve's neck and he glimpses a flash of irony through the pain: Captain America, killed with his own shield – unable to protect even himself.

His breath comes in ragged gasps, loud in his ears. Loki chuckles softly, and the triumph in his green, green eyes is swift and pitiless. "Kneel," he whispers, nails digging into Steve's face. "Turn away from the abyss you hold together and kneel to me. You're falling apart, Captain. Don't deny it."

The word slips out, quiet and hard, like death. "No."

It's a denial of everything Loki's saying, because it can't possibly be the truth. He couldn't bear it.

"There's nothing left to save, Captain. Nothing to fight for. You are a soldier without a cause – or perhaps your cause is dead and cold. You fight for another's man dream; something you cannot hope to understand." He takes a deliberate step backward, as if he is trying to calm a frightened animal.

And Steve wants punch him across the room because in his mind he sees crates and crates of weapons he died to destroy and a tall, one-eyed man who promised he was the good guy. A tingle runs through his arms, setting his teeth on edge.

"You're wrong – this is madness." _It has to be. You're a liar. You're _the_ liar._

"Is it?" Loki leans forward, as if he really does want the answer, and no-one will tell him. "Is it?"

Steve nods, but it is not a very determined nod.

Loki folds himself, sits across from Steve, still keeping his staff in long, ready fingers – too tightly to be relaxed. His posture spoke of graceful indifference, but Steve can read tension in fingers wrapped too tightly. It's saved his life many times.

"How long have you believed this, Captain? How long have you comforted yourself with a string of lies, afraid to face your own emptiness?"

Steve's voice comes out as a whisper, all too loud in the silence. "Always. There isn't anything else." It sounds desperate, even in his own ears, and Loki's voice is dragging him down.

"I faced my own void, Captain. I looked into the abyss and it crushed me. I, the Liesmith, was not afraid to look upon the Truth, though it should destroy me."

The Trickster's face is narrow and white in the twilight, and he looks too young, too small to be pitiless, let alone a god. "Can you do the same?"

Maybe, this is the brother Thor still sees: just a boy, small and sharp and slightly cracked, but unafraid of the gaping chasms and towering heights that most people never noticed.

Loki lets out a breath that falls just short of a snort, relaxing his grip on Steve's shield a bit further. Steve wonders where the rest of his team are, then realizes that it hasn't been that long since he arrived on the scene. He needs to stall – they won't be here for a while.

"It was an honest question."

The statement catches him by surprise and he almost laughs. Loki, the god of lies, claiming an honest anything.

"Liar's paradox," Steve responds hoarsely, forgetting that Loki has the advantage here; then again, Steve hasn't been known to shut up when he should. It's been called determination, bravery, courage. Steve knows it's just plain old stubbornness.

Loki's eyebrows quirk up. "Am I really incapable of sincerity?"

"I'm not your brother; I don't know."

Loki tenses, a raw look flickering in his eyes. "I should kill you."

He speaks abruptly, jerkily, and Steve knows he's touched something that Loki would rather lie quietly in his mind til the end of time, gathering dust. He has angered something huge and terrible and unearthly, and he's just a man, a mortal man. This is power, maybe, but it's not a power Steve wants.

Loki rounds on him, and Steve feels fear – real fear – creeping quietly up his throat. None of them except Thor know what the Trickster is fully capable of. He might be about to find out. The bright, slender staff whirls, shimmering madly, through narrow fingers, it's deadly tip landing on his chest. Steve freezes as a mad hum washes over him: electricity and energy and power, setting his teeth on edge and crackling in the smoky air.

_'I should kill you.' _

The words are soft and sharp as a knife shredding silk. Steve isn't sure if Loki has actually spoken, or if the words are simply echoing in his mind, the mere thought of the trickster god. Loki's eyes flash and the hum grows louder, eating at his bones. There's nothing Steve can do. His back is wedged against a wall; a crazed, would-be god is poised to kill him with a power greater than he can understand. Loki's staff pierces through the material of his suit, biting into blood and muscle. Steve can feel the cold and he shivers again. But there's no pain, only the unearthly humming, and his pulse ringing in his ears.

Hulk's roar splits the sky, echoing.

_They're here. _

But that doesn't mean he'll get out alive. The sound is still distant and Loki has time. The humming crackles through the air, eclipsing the burning and the smoke and the pain, eating memory, thought, laughter. He's drowning in a well of dark water and Loki is laughing.

* * *

_A/N: *dramatic gasp* What will happen to the Captain? Will the rest of the Avengers arrive in time? Is Loki really heartless? All shall be revealed in part II, which has been written and needs only to be revised. _ _Part of me is sorry to leave all of you hanging after such a long wait, but a bigger part of me just loves a cliffie. *evil laugh*_

_This is my first time seriously writing Loki though, and really would like feedback. Besides, feedback feeds my muse. Happy muse = more updates. ;)_

_~RandomCelt_

_P.S. Anyone have prompts for me?_


	7. Dark Water (part the second)

Loki watches the Captain's eyes grow blank as swirling green drowns defiant blue. A rush of wild happiness fills him, smothering his regret at a strong voice silenced. Free men bear a certain resilience that his slaves lack; they accomplish tasks far better than mindless thralls who have no heart for his plans. But then again, few of the Midgardians have real heart for anything. The Avengers are not like this. Perhaps this is why Thor is drawn to them – they have too much heart. As does he: strong, foolish Thor, who forgives and forgets far too easily. It will be his downfall one day; the Trickster God has sworn it. One by one, worlds will fall to him, until golden Asgard is burning and the tall, golden warrior will fall. The Realm Eternal will dissolve into the mists of Time. He will live, immortal, even as they die.

The mortal whose mind he has just subverted is only a stepping stone in the long, shining road of his plans. _Glorious purpose..._

The Captain climbs slowly to his feet, eyes an unnatural shade of green. His face stands hard: there is no mercy here, no compassion. Voices from the mortal's past echo in Loki's mind as he gives him his first order.

_Kill._

An old, heavily accented voice murmurs, 'The weak man knows the value of strength.'

But there is no weakness here, and therefore, (as Loki will hardly admit) no true strength. The Captain is _brittle_. It is perfect.

Loki smiles.

The beast roars in the distance, but let it come. Let them all come; they will not fight their own Captain. Loki smiles and gestures elegantly, letting his fingers swirl and drag through the smoke. He feels power building deep inside, turning his pulse to a drum, sweeping through him, erupting in a spray of green fire that levels a building to ashes and rubble. Loki laughs, wild and free. He has power to ignite the stars, destroy the ones that have caused him grief. The worlds will bow to him; countless souls will hold his sway or be unmade in a flurry of fire.

* * *

Iron Man arrives on the scene in a flash of gold and crimson. Firelight paints his armor til it shines like a warrior out of legend. But Loki is not afraid. His smile is a slow twisting thing, like a snake, as Stark pulls up short, taking in the sight of a green-eyed Captain kneeling before the Trickster God.

Tony pulls up sharp out of his dive, shock registering, canceling out everything else. Steve is kneeling to Loki. _What the...? _A sneaking suspicion creeps into his mind, and the genius orders Jarvis to zoom in on Cap's face.

_Green_. His eyes are _green_.

The truth breaks over Tony like cold water. Loki's taken over Steve's mind, just like he did to Clint. (And tried to do to Tony, but he's not thinking about that right now.) Even as he hovers there, trying to come up with a plan, berating himself for letting Cap going in without waiting for his team ("People are dying, Tony!" "And you might become one of them!"), Steve looks up, poison green nailing the suit's eye-slits. Loki's voice carries loud and clear: _'Kill.'_

Steve's reflexes are faster than Tony gives the man credit for – his Shield is a bright blur, headed for Iron Man's helmet. Tony dodges and rolls, snatching the metal disk out of the air and tossing it to Natasha, who he knows is right behind him, thanks to JARVIS.

They have to break Loki's hold on Steve; it's only a matter of how. The team has various ideas for Tony, who has somehow become impromptu leader, but the best idea is both Thor's and Natasha's: _hit him really hard on the head. _

Tony hears his pulse pounding in his ears, doesn't think, as the world narrows around him. Iron Man sees only the star-spangled figure in front of him. He flits in, brings his armored arm back and punches out so fast that the world blurs around him.

He's so focused that he doesn't see Thor nailing Loki with his lightning for a full second afterward.

* * *

_'Kill.'_

He is oddly weightless, warm and calm, doubtless that what Loki says is right. Tony Stark is an evil, self-obsessed fool. Loki how many people he's hurt! It's only right that he should die. Anger flares within him as he hurls his shield at the red-gold armored figure before him. Stark dodges at the last instant. No matter; he will die eventually. He starts forward, but he never lands a blow because Iron Man gets there first. A crimson fist connects with his jaw as lightning flashes in the sky.

Then everything goes dark.

He will wake slowly, hours later, wondering how on earth he let Loki take over his mind.

But Thor will be sitting by his bed with a sad smile and an explanation, however irrational. ("Captain, do not be troubled. Loki is the Trickster god, mad and fallen far. I understood him once, once and long ago. No-one perceives the workings of his heart until the hammer-stroke has fallen and it is too late. Who now knows his council?") Steve will never have an answer for that, especially after he learns that Thor electrocuted his own brother to save him.

* * *

Thor is here.

Loki sees his hammer begin to whirl, feels the electricity setting his teeth on edge, crackling in his hair. The world is whipping into a fiery storm, fire staining the underbellies of huge, brooding clouds. Thunder rumbles, and the smell of it fills up the warm air.

Thor is the Thunder God. And he is_ angry. _

At Loki. At his brother. Loki has never been on the receiving end of this all-consuming wrath, and he can see himself folding under the weight of his brother's anger, exploding like a wooden shield in a cloud of smoldering splinters and matchsticks.

_'Let him go!'_

And Loki laughs. There is no sanity in his voice, leaking out between his chapped lips. Loki spreads his arms, knowing the power he wields over the Avengers.

_'No.'_

Thunder crashes over his head, drenching the world in noise, louder than loud. Then the lightning hits him. Pain is his only world; the beauty of it dazzling like ice, sharp enough to draw blood. He is wading in agony, and through it all, Thor watches him, the familiar, safe face twisting into such pain as though it was him dying in the lightning's glare.

Thor has made his choice. He attacks Loki to save his mortal friends, all of whom much age and die in an Aesir heartbeat. The pain and pity and love in Thor's eyes, eyes like the endless sky, must be an illusion, illuminating all that Loki has known in a dark and traitorous light.

_For this I fell. _

The pain has stopped, and he is lying beneath a shadowed and smoky sky. Thor's clouds have begun to bleed, and rain pours across a stained and broken horizon. Rain like tears: tears to wash the earth away. Thor is running toward him, but it is too late. It has been too late ever since Loki fell from the Bifrost.

_You made your choice, Brother._

He turns in the dust, pulling himself into the places between worlds with the last of his strength. He will drown in the endless stars, freezing away his heart. The last thing he sees is Thor's ageless blue eyes, unshed tears reflecting the fire.

_I have made mine._

* * *

_A/N: *sigh of relief* It's done. How did I do with Loki's thought? And did Thor's actions make sense? I hope I got him right - I mean, if you were him what would you do? He's not the type to stand around indecisively. On a lighter note, does anybody have prompts for me? I've gotten two great ideas so far, both of which will make appearances. Thanks, guys! Also, anyone who reviews and gives me a one-word prompt (green, goldfish, tears, window...)will get a very short drabble in the final chapter. Just sayin'. :D_

_~RandomCelt-the-long-winded_


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